


S-a-f-e

by appalachian_fireflies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Dissociation, Flashbacks, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Triggers, cap 3 mentions, gonna be jossed so hard i ain't even mad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:52:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appalachian_fireflies/pseuds/appalachian_fireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d just started to feel safe, was the thing.  </p><p>(For asocialconstruct, who wanted a fic where Bucky was badly triggered while with Steve and Sam.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	S-a-f-e

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asocialconstruct](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asocialconstruct/gifts).



He’d just started to feel safe, was the thing. 

Hell, maybe safe wasn’t the right word, exactly, but it was something close to it. Closer than he’d gotten in about seventy years, anyhow. He could go to the market, hang his spoons over by the stove, wash his linens and not think, _Any minute, now. They’ll come through that door, take me away, at best put me in a little box and throw away the key. At worst, they’re gonna wipe me again, and they’ll-_

He’s thinking about it again. He’s been staring at the wallpaper for the past few minutes, but he hasn’t seen it at all. Soft yellow, interlacing swirls. He checked out. His fingers are flicking furiously in sign- S-T-O-P. S-T-O-P. 

He blocks the thought, shakes his head a little when it tries to come back. Goddamn, but he’s _tired_. Whatever chemical it is that keeps you alert, he’s burnt right through it till he feels scraped thin, weak and shaky, but his eyes are still wide and searching. He can’t sleep. They’re gonna come for him. They’re not gonna let him go. None of his words are gonna matter to them, and he can’t fight all of them. 

He doesn’t want to die either, which is unfortunate. He doesn’t want to live to be stuck in a little cage, stripped and hosed and have meds forced down his throat- 

S-T-O-P. S-T-O-P. 

He needs to come down. He just wants to come down. He looks over his little apartment that he’s stayed in for so many days and been left alone. That corner with the crack in it; he loves that. The couch that’s lost most of its stuffing. He slept here, and he cooked and dressed and shaved and every day his body was his own. He kept to himself, and no one bothered him. The linoleum of the counter shines with how many times he’s scrubbed it. 

L-I-N-O-L-E-U-M. S-C-R-U-B. Calm down. 

Some jackass went out and framed him for a bombing while he was washing his hair. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it. He knows that. He’s killed enough people that his life and freedom shouldn’t be his, but god, he can’t go back, please don’t make him go back-. He doesn’t want to die, but he’d do anything to not have to re-live hands on his body, being restrained against his will, helpless and trapped-

P-L-E-A-S-E, S-T-O-P. 

He can’t stay here any longer, this place where time moved parallel to a world that wanted his head. The blanket on the couch feels impossibly soft when he rubs it between his fingers one last time. He’s not taking anything he can’t carry on his back. 

\--

He fell into their trap. The first few moments are blind, animal panic, high pitched noises of terror as he yanks, yanks at the arm till it hurts so bad he screams, then he yanks again. 

By the time Steve shows up, he’s so exhausted that he’s covered in sweat, mouthing something that he doesn’t have a clue his brain is trying to have him say, still weakly tugging at the arm. Steve looks at him, and he looks away. 

He’s so ashamed. Steve looks perfect, larger than life, and here he is. Oceans of blood on his hands, Steve’s included. Half out of his mind, though he’s tried his hardest to stay even-keeled. He thinks that if they would just leave him in peace on a farm somewhere, he might do alright for himself. 

Steve doesn’t look disappointed. Bucky flinches when he hears him say his name, answers his question. And then what Steve's feeling clearly isn't disappointment at all. 

They don’t have much time before help comes to get him out, but Steve holds a bottle of water to his lips, helps him get his energy up to run when the time calls for it. They don’t talk much. 

He feels something he can’t remember ever feeling, though he knows he must have. He wants to trust Steve. He wants to trust him so goddamn much that he wants to cling to him and ask for help, cause he’s doing his best and he’ll keep running till he’s out of gas, but he’s getting tired and he can’t be _on_ 24/7 like this. He wants to rest. Steve’s steady like the earth, and he smells like home. 

Steve lets him go. 

\--

“I don’t do that anymore,” he’d said, begging Steve to understand. He’s been good. He didn’t act up, didn’t hurt anyone, didn’t draw attention to himself. He’s been good. He just wants to be left alone. 

\--

They catch up and regroup in the middle of fucking nowhere, moon high overhead and the trees full of whirring cicadas. Bucky had stopped here because it looked abandoned, and because he was physically unable to do more. His nervous system is burnt out, twitching at nothing, muscles weak and aching. 

He contacts them on the burner phone they threw in his bag, hears their car come up, headlights flashing through cracked glass to create a crystalline pattern on the wood floor. 

“Bucky?” Steve says cautiously, opening the door slowly. That’s good; he’s learned something. He should know better than to be anywhere near the soldier- near him- and. His train of thought stops there. It’s good. 

He doesn’t bother to make a noise, just waits until Steve sees him. Steve pads over, surprisingly light on his feet, and stops at least an arm’s length from him. 

“Hey,” Steve says, carefully neutral. “Mind if we crash here?”

Bucky spreads his hand out, gestures to the room. “’S been a while since I waxed the floors.” 

Steve flicks on a light, scans the room. “Well, hey, look at that. Sam,” Steve calls, and Sam cautiously steps through the door. “Look, they got electric lighting!”

Sam sighs heavily. “Sam Wilson,” he introduces himself to Bucky, ignoring Steve. 

Bucky nods. “James Buchanan Barnes,” he says, staying sitting in his corner. He’s not sure he can stand now, anyway. The shaking started up worse as soon as they stepped in the door. His body’s got a mind of its own, right now. Saying his name sure doesn’t make it better; it’s still hard to get the words out. He feels deeply satisfied every time he manages it. 

“Nice to meet you,” Sam smiles, warm and polite. 

Steve sits on the floor across from him. “You hungry?”

“Tired,” Bucky allows, though it feels dangerous to admit it. 

“You want the bedroom?” 

Bucky shakes his head. He shifts, lifts where his shirt is sticking to his skin. He sees Steve track the movement. 

“Is that- you’re bleeding,” Steve frowns. 

Sam comes over too, now, leans down to look. Bucky puts his hand over the bloody shirt. 

“Hey,” Sam says, getting down on his haunches. He drops a duffel from his shoulder down onto the floor. “Why don’t you let me take a look at that?” 

Bucky looks at him. He doesn’t want anyone near his body, but he doesn’t know how to say it. He knows it would be the wrong thing to say. He is also aware that it’s a perfectly reasonable request, and he should let Sam clean the wound. 

“Sam knows what he’s doing,” Steve says gently. “He just wants to help.” 

Bucky thinks maybe he can get through this and hold it together. He’s stretched tight, but he’s sure he can keep himself from hurting anyone. He leans back and nods, puts his left arm back behind himself to show he’ll cooperate. 

“Ok,” Sam says, opening the duffel, grabbing a few items from a plastic box, and shuffling forward. “I’m gonna tell you everything before I do it, that cool?”

Bucky nods. 

“Can you lift your shirt for me?” Sam asks, and Bucky complies. The blood beneath is fairly dry now, but tacky where he’s pulled the shirt away. 

“Knife?” Sam asks. “No bullets?”

“Yes,” Bucky answers, tone flat. 

“Okay,” Sam says easily, despite the amount of blood. “Can I get closer?” 

Bucky nods, and Sam moves forward, inspecting the wound. He tries not to react to the feeling of fingers on his skin, like spiders crawling. 

“It cool if I disinfect this?” 

“Yes.” 

Sam snaps on a pair of latex gloves, and Bucky mostly makes it through that. The smell starts to pull him away, but he focuses on the room, Sam’s warm brown hands. No one had hands like that when they were-

Sam cracks open a bottle of peroxide, and Bucky’s heart rate kicks into overdrive. The room _shifts_ , and he’s

Gone. 

_“What’s wrong?” strained, worried. “Is he having a seizure?”_

_“No,” a face in his field of vision, frowning. _The procedure has already started._ There’s a flash of light- a screen, small. “He’s just tapping his fingers, is that- pointer and middle to his thumb? I think it’s- hold on.”_

The light of the screen is like a beacon, and he’s drifting. A lighthouse, guiding him back. He’s looking _through_ the room; the floor seems close to the eye with swirls he follows down through their dark centers, and distant, untouchable, all at once. 

_“It’s sign language,” the screen goes black. “He’s signing no.”_

No. 

His heart pulls itself valiantly up to pounding again, and everything around him is too sharp, too real, he can smell the peroxide and the copper tang of blood, he remembers blood pooling out on the floors, animal cries of pain. He looks around but he can’t focus, can’t pull himself back. He’s lost down the rabbit hole, he has so much in his mind waiting to drown him that he thinks he might never come up. 

He’s trying so hard to stay quiet. He didn’t mean to say it. 

__He hears a bottle being capped, the sound of a window opening._ _

_“He learned it for me. I was hard of hearing. I never bothered to know much, didn’t like to be reminded I had trouble- it was stupid of me.”_

_“You know what he’s sayin’ now?”_

_“Sorry,” voice thick, “he’s saying sorry.”_

__Bucky feels a wave of relief. They don’t sound angry. “Sorry,” he manages, nodding over and over._ _

__“Hey,” someone says, and he follows the voice, focuses. Steve. “Don’t be sorry, Buck.”_ _

__Bucky stays quiet. His flesh hand is bunched in his shirt where it’s still lifted._ _

__“You’re doing so good,” another voice says. Bucky snaps his attention towards it. Falcon. Sam. “There you go. You’re doing great. I’m so proud of you.”_ _

__Bucky follows the voice, feels his heart rate slowing, his breathing evening out._ _

__“That’s good. Just take a minute and breathe. You’re ok. We’re not upset with you. That’s perfect.”_ _

__Bucky leans against the wall, his body shaking out yet another surge of adrenaline._ _

__“We’re not gonna do anything you don’t want to do. You’re feeling pretty tired, yeah?”_ _

__Bucky nods._ _

__“How can we help?” Sam asks, steady._ _

__“Afraid they’ll come take me,” Bucky manages._ _

__“That’s not gonna happen,” Steve says quickly, stubborn. “Not while I have anything to say about it.” Sam looks sharply over at him._ _

__“You died,” Bucky replies, tired. Steve looks away. Bucky puts his hand over the exposed wound, rubs at some of the congealing blood._ _

__“You’re not alone,” Sam replies. “We can keep watch while you sleep. You know we don’t want to take you anywhere you don’t want to go, right?”_ _

__Bucky shrugs. He doesn’t know what they want. But his body knows that whatever Steve wants, he doesn’t want to hurt him. That’s enough, somehow. He watches bright red blood well up from where he’s accidentally picked a scab. He doesn’t feel anything in particular about it._ _

__“You don’t want me to clean that, do you?” Sam asks. Bucky can’t answer that._ _

__“I know I’m asking you for a lot,” Sam says, “and I know you’re tired. Why don’t we figure this out, then we can make sure you get some good rest?”_ _

__Bucky looks at him._ _

__“You don’t want me to clean that wound, right? Can you tell me no?”_ _

__Bucky looks away, tries to think. It’s a trick, and he can’t find his way around._ _

__“Can you tell me with your hands? They didn’t understand that, did they?”_ _

__That, he can answer. He taps his fingers together. Sam smiles._ _

__“No, they didn’t understand. You don’t want me to clean your cut?”_ _

__Bucky pauses. He taps his fingers together. Sam grins broadly._ _

__“That’s great. That’s so good. Thank you, James. How about this,” Sam pulls out another bottle, tears a packet and swishes it in the fluid. It has a little bent spout. Sam pushes it over to Bucky with a large cloth. “I don’t know if it was looking at it, or the way it sounded, or smelled? But something set you off.”_ _

__“Smell,” Bucky offers._ _

__“Yeah,” Sam replies, voice full of empathy. It should be patronizing, the way Sam has to go through this conversation slowly, heaping praise. But he can’t help but feel grateful. He’s so tired. “That’s just saline," Sam adds. "It shouldn’t smell like the peroxide.”_ _

__Bucky grabs the towel and bottle of saline, squirts the saline onto the wound. He pulls away layers of dirt and sweat and caked blood until the line of the wound is visible. It’s already trying to knit closed; it doesn’t need stitches. It’ll heal if he rests. He holds the towel to it, waiting for the bleeding to stop again._ _

__“Alright,” Sam says, pulling his eyes away from the cut. “Just try take it easy on that, ok? You want something else to sleep in?”_ _

__Bucky taps his fingers. He can barely keep his eyes open, now. He can’t imagine undoing all of the buckles and straps under his clothing, lifting his arms to pull off his shirt._ _

__“Sure,” Sam replies easily. He hands Bucky some gaze and tape, and Bucky gets to work, covering the wound away from his dirty and ripped clothing._ _

__“I’m gonna go check around outside. That ok?”_ _

__Bucky nods._ _

__“Thank you, Sam,” Steve says, low, and squeezes Sam’s shoulder before he stands. Sam pats Steve on the shoulder, then gets up and leaves, carefully shutting the door behind him._ _

__It’s just Steve in the room, now, Sam patrolling outside. Bucky closes his eyes._ _

__He hears Steve pad out of the room, then return with a swish of cloth. Something soft brushes up against his thigh._ _

__“You're safe,” Steve says, and Bucky wants to laugh. He doesn’t believe him. He definitely doesn’t know how to trust him, even if he did believe Steve could keep such a wild promise. He’s so tired, and he doesn’t know how to say the right things._ _

__“I don’t trust you,” Bucky says. He looks down; there’s a pillow on the floor, and a blanket. He rubs his fingers on the cloth. He thinks that Steve is the only person he could ever let himself say that to._ _

__Steve considers him for a moment. “I don’t know why you should,” Steve says. “I abandoned you.”_ _

__Bucky shakes his head. “No, I just. I don’t have any left.”_ _

__“I don’t know why you should,” Steve repeats. He didn't know it till now, but it's the only thing Steve could have said to make him change his mind._ _

__Bucky slides the pillow down on the floor, pulls the blanket over himself. It’s not too different from the one he had back on his couch, in his apartment. He lays down stiffly on the floor, and it’s such a relief when his head lands softly on the pillow that he sighs._ _

__“Hey, Steve.”_ _

__“Hey, Buck,” Steve smiles, sad._ _

__“You want… to keep me safe.”_ _

__“Yeah.” Only Steve Rogers could say that with such conviction._ _

__“I trust you.” He does. He believes that. He can’t not._ _

__“Thank you,” Steve says, blinking too fast. “Go to sleep, Buck.”_ _

__He closes his eyes, feels the last of the shakes move through him as he curls in, metal arm covering his stomach. There are murmured voices he registers every few hours; they keep the dreams away._ _

__Bucky still knows they’re coming for him. They could burst through the door while he’s unconscious, take him away and put him somewhere in a little box, cold and hard and alone. They can strip his mind until he’s confused and malleable, beat him, shock him, cut him open. They wouldn’t hesitate, they wouldn’t care what he had to say. They would think they were doing the right thing._ _

__He opens his eyes, and Steve is there, still smelling like home and safety. Sam looks over with warm, steady eyes, and Bucky closes his again. It matters less, somehow, that people are coming for him with drugs and restraints. He doesn’t think he’ll be alone, not really. Not as long as Steve and Sam are alive._ _


End file.
